


Kid

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [11]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't know what I'm doing!" A flicker of motion in John's peripheral vision, and he knew that Matt was dragging a hand through his hair. Again. By the time he was through he was gonna look like Elsa Lanchester. "I've never been a father!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kid

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt "K" at LJ's 1_million_words A to Z Challenge.
> 
> * * *

"Okay," Matt said, "I've changed my mind."

John barely glanced up from his magazine. He could follow Matt's progress from the squeak of his tennis shoes on the linoleum. Seven steps to the west wall, pivot, two steps, stop and hover in the open doorway while scanning for signs of a nurse, five steps to the east wall, stare blankly at the TV screen mounted from the ceiling. Repeat. For the last thirty-three minutes. Ever since they'd gotten the call to meet Andrea at Admitting and then been ensconced in Waiting Room Hell. 

"Kinda too late for that, kid," he finally answered. 

"I don't know what I'm doing!" A flicker of motion in John's peripheral vision, and he knew that Matt was dragging a hand through his hair. Again. By the time he was through he was gonna look like Elsa Lanchester. "I've never been a father!"

"Pretty sure all those classes you dragged me to got us covered, Matthew."

"Classes!" Matt repeated derisively. 

John sighed. As if it wasn't _Matt_ who signed them up for every goddamn parenting class in the five boroughs. Hell, he had them schlepping out to fuckin' Jersey at one point. _Jersey_. If hauling your paranoid partner's ass all the way to goddamn Jersey so he can listen to some new-age shyster lecture the two of you about swaddling and 'embraceable reality' ain't love, John sure as hell doesn't know what is.

"Classes are great, sure, for some things. They can teach you how to, I don't know, program a simple webpage or dismantle a car engine—" 

"Fuck, there were a lot of 'em," John mused. "Parenting Plus, Effective Parenting, Living and Learning with Baby—"

"—but this isn't pistons and open source code, John! This is an actual living—"

"The Incredible Years, Stepping Stones," John intoned.

"—human being! I can barely remember to make myself a sandwich when you're stuck late at work, how in the hell am I going to be able—"

"And that same-sex one," John finished. "I can never remember the name of that one."

Matt abruptly stopped his pacing, flopped down in the seat next to John. "Around the Rainbow," he said.

John snapped his fingers. "Right."

The memory of sixteen bi-weekly meetings while crammed into too-small chairs in a room that looked like a unicorn threw up after a night of binge drinking should be enough to keep that one front and center, but all John can ever remember of it is the headache he always left with. And how much the Rainbow lecturer reminded him of Demi Moore. Hot. No Matt-hot, 'cause no one is hot like Matt is hot, but they had a similar hair thing. It was distracting.

The room was too quiet now that Matt's sneakers were no longer squelching out a symphony in C minor. John tossed his magazine onto the table, folded his hands on his stomach and stretched out his legs. Should've known they didn't have to rush down the second Andrea called. Not that he'd have been able to hold Matt back unless he wanted to tie him down. Which definitely had possibilities. 

John closed his eyes, tried to ignore the nasally drone of the moron on Fox News and picture Matt instead. Maybe splayed out on the bed, arms above his head. Just enough slack in the ropes for him to twist and turn, but not enough for him to actually move away when John hovered above him to tease…

"What if he hates us?" Matt asked quietly.

"Between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, he will," John said dryly without opening his eyes.

Jeeeezus, he doesn't even want to think about what he went through with Jack at that age. Him less than a year off the bottle and Jack hitting puberty. Not a pretty fucking picture. Jack spent most of the vacation time he was supposed to be using to reconnect with his old man locked in his room with a jangly guitar and getting on every single last one of John's nerves. 

And now he was gonna do it all over again. At the ripe old age of fifty-eight. Christ. Was it really too late for them to change their minds?

"What if he wants to spend all his time with Andrea?" Matt asked.

The plaintive note in the voice finally registered, and John cracked an eye. Matt was perched on the edge of his chair, his head bent, elbows propped on his knees. Fingers dangling between his thighs. It wasn't… normal. The kid was all crackling energy, big gestures, a dozen thoughts whirling through his brain and all trying to force their way past his lips at once. He was never this still.

John shook his head, stifled a groan as he hauled himself into an upright position on the chair. "The open adoption only means that Andrea can see him once a month," he said patiently, even though Matt knew it already. Even though they'd gone over all the adoption possibilities until they could list the pros and cons for each one in their sleep before they made the choice. Even though John still had the fucking _spreadsheet_ that Matt had made saved somewhere in the black hole of his hard drive. "If it works out and she wants to see him more than that – and he wants to see her more than that – then we'll discuss it when the time comes. Having her in his life can only be good for him. But it's not going to be because he hates us, Matt."

"But—"

"Or because you're not a great parent," John said. He shook his head again, reached out to take one of Matt's hands in his own. "You're gonna be a fuckin' amazing dad," he said.

Nothing but the sound of Bill O'Reilly's whining voice from the box; then Matt shifted on the chair, though he kept his eyes trained on the faded tiles. "You think?"

"I think," John said firmly. He squeezed Matt's hand. "Not every kid gets a damn supergenius for an old man. We're gonna be fine, Matty. I'm gonna teach the kid how to cook a mean fuckin' omelette and steal third, and you're gonna teach him how all those crazy ones and squiggles make up some kinda bizarre language for technogeeks and get him enthusiastic about all kinds of weird shit." 

"Technogeekery and weird shit," Matt repeated slowly. He tilted his head, and John had to resist the urge to release his hand in order to swipe the bangs out of his eyes. "That's my parental role."

John shrugged. "It's a compliment," he said. "And when the kid gets pissed at us, it won't be because we suck or because he loves Andrea more than us. It'll be because kids are generally psychotic until they're at least eighteen, or because you grounded him when he deliberately whipped his baseball into the transformer and wiped out the power for fifteen city blocks."

"Jack?"

"Lucy."

"Should've known." Matt straightened slowly, and when he finally squeezed John's fingers in return John knew that they'd successfully navigated the first of many parental neuroses. Next time it'd be Matt talking him down off the ledge. It's how parenting works. "So," Matt continued. "Supergenius, huh?"

"It's one level above genius."

"Uh huh."

"Keep workin' at it, you might reach megagenius level someday," John said. "But don't be surprised if our kid beats ya to it. He's gonna have training from the master, after all." 

Matt grinned. "Just gonna call him little padawan."

John released Matt's hand, leaned back in the chair. Opened his mouth to ask Matt if he'd just referred to their as-yet-unborn child as some kind of Japanese entrée, but quickly closed it again when he realized that Matt would actually _answer_ him. "Call him whatever ya want," John said instead, "but you start the kid believing in poisonous chem-trails and low-dose valium additives in corn flakes and I will kick your ass."

"We already discussed this, John! Our son is not ever eating corn flakes. There have been studies—"

John held up a hand. "Don't wanna hear it."

"—studies, all right, at Oxford, completely covered up by the mainstream media because—"

"Mr. Farrell? Mr. McClane?"

Matt's head whirled around so fast John thought they might have to check him later for whiplash; an instant later he had popped out of his chair like a champagne cork. If the look on the nurse's face was any indication, he could do a proper comparison later when they dug out the bottle that'd been sitting in the bar for the past six months. Waste of a hundred bucks when Matt was such a damn lightweight and he'd be drinking mineral water, but you only become a new dad so many damn times.

"That's me!" Matt yelled. He waved a hand, clearly made an attempt to modulate his tone. "Us! I mean that's… us. But it's Detective. Not me, no, I'm just Mister, like I could ever be a… but he's…" Matt gulped, did the Elsa Lanchester bit about six more times until John finally stood and snagged his hand. 

"Hi," John said mildly.

The nurse smiled. "Congratulations," she said. "You have a beautiful baby daughter."

For a moment the words didn't register. And then, absurdly, the first thing John thought was that they'd spent fucking months arguing over a name and now they were never going to be able to name a little girl _Harvey_. 

"Yeah," Matt said. "That's… wrong? We're having a boy."

"Well, sometimes—"

"There were ultrasounds! Three! Three ultrasounds! And they all said it was a boy!"

The nurse spread her arms, arched a brow. "Surprise?" she said. "Would you like to meet your daughter?"

"Our daughter. Holy shit. We have a girl," Matt repeated slowly. John didn't realize how tightly he was holding Matt's hand until the kid turned toward him and glanced down at his fingers; he forced himself to loosen his grip and watched Matt's face slowly split into a wide grin. "A girl."

"Jeeeezus," John finally managed to breathe out.

When the nurse turned to lead them briskly down the corridor, he made his feet follow. The hand gripping Matt's tightened again, but this time he couldn't find it in him to let go. Hoped to hell that Matt was paying attention, because he wouldn't find his way along these twisty corridors again. A daughter. Tea sets and Barbie dolls, arguments over hem lengths and appropriate cleavage, intimidating the boys who would invariably flock to her door. 

"You're still teaching her how to steal third," Matt said.

John blinked. A daughter. Season tickets to the Mets, Sundays in the park with his old glove and a break to feed the ducks. He breathed out, straightened his shoulders. "Got that right."

"And I'm still teaching her how to hack into the Pentagon."

John stopped so abruptly that he nearly dislocated the kid's arm. "Matthew," he warned.

Matt laughed. "Kidding," he said.

John only wished he believed him.


End file.
